Maybe We Do Need It

Jackson never thought he needed marriage. Not because he didn't believe in love, or commitment, or all the quiet rituals that came with it. But because for so long, love felt like a performance. A role he played with just enough distance to avoid getting burned. For most of his life, intimacy came with rules, contracts, carefully staged photoshoots. It came with people who held his hand on red carpets but didn't know how he took his coffee.

He thought he was above it. All of it.

But tonight, the apartment is quiet. A soft wind taps against the windowpane. The world beyond their bedroom is asleep. And Kole-wild, reckless, heartbreaking Kole-is curled into him, breathing softly against his chest like it's the only place he's ever felt safe. Jackson stares up at the ceiling, his hand resting lightly on Kole's spine, and something inside him shifts.

It happens like most real things do. Slowly. Without fanfare.

He doesn't think about a proposal. Doesn't imagine tuxedos or rings or walking down some aisle. He just thinks about waking up like this every day. With Kole's fingers resting over his heartbeat like they belong there. With the silence between them filled with a kind of ease Jackson never thought he'd deserve.

He thinks: Maybe this is it.

---

The thought doesn't leave him. It trails him through the week like a song he can't get out of his head.

It lingers when he watches Kole argue with the delivery guy in French and get them extra dumplings out of sheer charm. It curls around his chest when Kole sits on the floor one afternoon, messy-haired and barefoot, editing one of his old articles just for the thrill of it, lips pressed in concentration.

Jackson watches him from the kitchen and thinks, How could I ever think this wasn't enough?

He used to think love meant fire. Noise. Passion loud enough to drown out the fear. But with Kole, love is everything else. The space between words. The steadiness. The choice they both keep making to stay.

And that, Jackson realizes, is what he wants to promise.

Not a perfect life. But a choice. Every day. Out loud.

---

Sunday comes like a gift. No interviews. No rehearsals. Just them.

Kole's in old sweats and an oversized T-shirt, hair tied up haphazardly, humming along to some indie playlist while folding laundry. Jackson joins in, half-distracted, handing him socks that never quite match.

They're standing at opposite ends of the couch, piles of clothes between them. Nothing grand. Nothing staged.

And that's when Jackson says it.

He holds up one of Kole's sweatshirts-the soft gray one he always ends up stealing-and clears his throat. "If I said I changed my mind... if I said I wanted to marry you... would that still be okay?"

The silence that follows is instant and full.

Kole stills. The shirt he was folding slips from his hands. He stares at Jackson like he's trying to figure out if this is a joke.

"You're serious?"

Jackson nods.

No cameras. No audience. Just him, standing barefoot on their living room rug, holding a stolen sweatshirt like it's sacred.

"I'm serious about you," he says. "About us. I used to think we didn't need labels. And maybe we still don't. But I want the world to know. I want you to know. Every day."

Kole doesn't move for a second. His eyes shine too brightly, and Jackson's heart stumbles because what if he misread this?

But then Kole steps forward, closes the space between them, and says, with a voice that cracks just a little:

"Yes. Of course yes."

---

They don't announce it. They don't rush to pick out rings or venues. That night, they eat leftover curry on the balcony, wrapped in a shared blanket. Jackson rests his head on Kole's shoulder, and Kole hums something soft under his breath.

"You know," Kole says after a while, "I never thought you'd be the one to ask."

"Me neither," Jackson replies. "But here we are."

Kole turns to him. "And here we'll stay."

The moon rises. The city below hums with life. But up here, it's just them.

No contracts. No scripts. No pretending.

Just a quiet promise-spoken without rings, but ringing just the same.